


restless

by fadewords



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Ableism, Autistic Davenport, Autistic Taako, but anyway., i imagine this like....lil bit after crystal kingdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 02:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: taako's a little bit restless, and sort of a lotta bit tired. enter davenport (who's also kinda restless, and not at all tired, except maybe of taako's shit).





	restless

Taako wanders the moon, the umbra staff trailing at his side. It hisses through the grass between domes, leaves a bit of a line, marking out his path. It scrapes a little whenever he steps inside one, once it hits floor, and sometimes makes _prett_ y satisfying scuff marks.

The sound snags in his ears, though. Not enough to make them, like, vibrate inside, but enough to make them twitch, you know?

So he picks up the staff, after a while. Holds it higher as he walks. Swings it idly for a bit, back, forth, back, forth, then hooks it over his arm, wandering all the while.

His feet take him all over. Familiar places—the cafeteria, the hall outside the Director’s office, the launch room—and unfamiliar, like several little storage rooms and a couple weird closed-up areas that, when he peeks inside, are bare and empty in a way that makes him think of caskets and disused cellars and his third cousin’s attic.

He pushes away from all of these before long. He’s tempted to snoop through the storage, and find out why the weird empty rooms are closed up, because, uh, creepy, but doesn’t. His feet won’t stay still long enough, keep drawing him from place to place to place.

Eventually, they lead him to the library, and he winds his way through the shelves, pulling out books at random, flipping through them as he goes, and shoving them back wherever it looks like they’ll fit, categorization be damned.

Wonders if maybe they have recipe books in here, somewhere. Not that he ever needs one, but maybe there’s something he can laugh at, or something he can improve, or—

So he looks for the cookbooks. Finds a few, but he’s gone through them all before. Keeps looking, and comes across one that looks, like, really old, and unfamiliar, and tucks it under the arm holding the umbra staff. That’s coming with him.

He trails the hand of his other arm along the shelves as he winds back out of the library. Pauses by a quiet-looking alcove with cyllindrical cushions that remind him, color-wise, of wine. Mentally shrugs, and tucks himself in the corner of it.

(He shoves all the nearby cushions away, and then wipes his hands on his skirt because ugh, crushed velvet, _gross_. Who even _likes_ that shit.)

Then he pulls the book out from under his arm and skims through. He tries to slow down after a bit, though, because it’s actually, unexpectedly, kind of interesting? And kind of a fun challenge to figure out which ingredients mean which things, because he’s positive he and the author don’t have the same names for stuff, because some are utterly unfamiliar, and some are familiar but sound like they have an effect, taste-wise, that they shouldn’t if they’re actually the things he immediately associates the name with.

After a while, though, the words start to blur a little bit, which. Rude.

He blinks, ears twitching with annoyance, and squints, which helps a little bit, but still. Words gettin a bit foggy. And with the squinting it’s...sort of hard to keep his eyes open.

He scowls, scrubs his eyes, keeps going. Finds his lids slipping shut against his will, the fucking traitors, and scowls deeper, and chucks the book across the way. It hits the nearest bookshelf with a satisfying thwack and a barely-perceptible cloud of dust.

He thinks about standing, going out to wander some more, maybe heading to his kitchen, tweaking some of those old-ass recipes….

Sounds nice, sounds fun, sounds a good time. He’s definitely gonna do that. Definitely. In just, y’know, just a moment.

Just a moment.

Just….

He doesn’t move. Can, if he tries, he’s sure, he’s positive—he moves the umbra staff to his lap just to prove it—he just. Doesn’t try.

The kitchen, he reflects, is pretty fuckin far from here. And he can always fuck with those recipes tomorrow, it’s not as though he doesn’t have, like, endless free time on his hands right now, so—

Yeah. Yeah, he’ll just. Stay here, for now. Chillax. Maybe meditate a bit, give the ol peepers a rest. Be able to pick up that book again, hey?

Yeah. Yeah, he’ll do that.

The corner’s not, like, the most comfortable one in the world, but hell, he’s meditated (and slept) In far worse places, so it’s whatever. Doesn’t take long at all to slip into that sweet sweet meditation. Hardly a moment, and then— _fwoosh_. Meditation central.

And time passes. Slow, even. Gray.

And Taako slips further, without really noticing, drifting sluggishly, like tree sap, ever closer to hazy flashes of distorted reflections, bloody lips, blurred shadows, until—

A hand on his.

Taako yanks his arm back ( _no_ —), leaps up (get _away_ ), jabs the umbra down staff at—at—

Taako blinks. Davenport?

The gnome stands inches from the end of the staff, one arm folded behind his back, the other slightly outstretched.

Taako scowls. Doesn’t lower the weapon. “What.”

Davenport doesn’t budge, and for a long moment doesn’t answer, either, only frowns at the staff. Then he looks up at Taako, still frowning, now with a stern edge. “Davenport.”

Taako holds the staff up several moments longer out of sheer spite, then drops it to his side. Fuck it, not worth the effort. Not now the adrenaline’s wearing off (he shouldn’t be more tired than when he started meditating and nearly accidentally fell asleep, but somehow—), and not if the gnome’s not gonna do the decent thing and be at least a little intimidated.

Davenport inclines his head. “Davenport.”

“What,” Taako snaps again. “The Director want something?” Unless it’s a paying job, he’s not gonna bother.

Davenport motions for Taako to follow him.

Oh, hell no.

Taako sits back down. Even if the Director _does_ want something, _Davenport_ ’s not his—he’s not—

Taako doesn’t have to listen to him.

Davenport motions again.

Taako closes his eyes, relaxes against the flat, cold wall.

“Davenport,” Davenport says, twice as firm as before. Then there’s the sharp snap of a button, a swish, some shuffling, and something thin and flexible being pressed into his hand. A card? What, is he inviting Taako to fantasy poker night?

Taako pries his eyes back open, just to see what the fuck it is—and nope, it’s not a playing card. Like, it’s a card, sure, but not for a game. Too small, too square. White. Stiff. Sharp corners. And it says, in neat black caps, “FOLLOW ME.”

He flips the card through his fingers a few times, then hands it back. “Nah. Taako’s good right here.”

Davenport holds the card up insistently.

Taako ignores it resolutely for a few minutes, but the gnome doesn’t budge, so finally he pushes himself to his feet, sighing loudly. “Ugh, fine. Fine.” He goes over, picks up the book, and gestures with it. “Lead the way, little man.” Then, as they exit the library, “This better be important.”

“Davenport.” He holds the card up over his shoulder.

“Yeah, following,” Taako says, because he is, just. Slowly. (Partly because, fuckin, tired, and partly cause he’s not got much choice but to go slow, not with the height difference.) “Seriously though, I’m gonna fight her if she’s called me in over, like, paperwork.”

Davenport hums in response. Sounds amused. (At least, Taako thinks amused. It’s a little hard to tell without seeing his face. And, in his defense, it’s late as fuck right now, and he’s been walking for hours, and his brain’s kinda made of soup at this point. Like, really fuckin good soup, mind, absolutely top-notch—but still, you know, soup.)

“I will,” he says. “Taako’s ready to throw down.”

Davenport hums again, definitely amused this time.

“Fuck off, little man.”

More shuffling, louder than the echoing pitter-patter of Davenport’s quick foosteps, and then another card held up over his shoulder.

Taako squints at the small letters, bouncing a little as Davenport walks, and determines that they read, “FUCK OFF.”

Despite himself, he laughs. Davenport’s always so proper (when he’s not dressed as a fuckin knight, anyway), this is—this is….Well. It’s not that out of place, actually, now he thinks about it, but—wait, no. It _deffo_ is. Of course it is. It’s…..Yeah. Yeah. (....Right.....?)

“Thought you wanted me to follow you,” he snarks, shoving the confusion away.

A pause. Then, “...Davenport,” a shrug that’s probably conceding the point, and another follow-me gesture.

Score one for Taako.

He rubs his temples as he adjusts the mental scoreboard—which he is absolutely dominating, by the way—because his stupid skull’s complaining a little bit. (Stupid echoey footsteps. Stupid foggy soup-brain.)

He follows Davenport through a complicated route that, while weird as shit—there are definitely faster ways to the Director’s office, but whatever, Taako’s in no rush—and a little bit disorienting (he’s pretty sure they’ve passed this exact wall hanging at least once before), at least manages to be mostly quiet and free of people.

(Though, actually, that might just be the hour. What time is it, anyway?)

He keeps following until finally Davenport stops in front of a door, taps on the wall beside it, and—

No, wait, hang on. That’s Taako’s door. That’s—what the fuck.

“What the fuck,” he says. “Davenport. Dav. Davvy. My dude. This ain’t the Director’s office.”

“Davenport,” Davenport says smugly.

“No, see, this,” Taako says slowly, like he’s talking to a very small and very stupid child, “is _my_ room.”

“Dav- _en-_ port,” Davenport says, equally slowly, in the same tone, and rolls his eyes, and brandishes the FUCK OFF card still between his fingers.

Taako blinks. Absorbs that.

“.....Okay,” he says. “Y’know what, that’s fair.” That—that one’s on Taako, he almost adds, but uh, _fuck_ that. Too close to an apology for his tastes, and it’s too fuckin late at night for those, and Davenport’s being weird anyway, and shit this weird is another thing it's too late for. “Fair,” he says again, instead. “But, uh, why the _fresh hell_ —?”

“Daven _port_ ,” Davenport says, waving a hand at Taako’s…everything. Then he taps on the wall again, insistently.

“...........You,” Taako says eloquently. Chews his tongue for a second, because it doesn’t. Quite make sense. Davenport brought him here to, what. Tell him to go to bed? He was already meditating, and anyway, Davenport isn’t his— “You _lied_ to me,” he says, scandalized.

Davenport raises an eyebrow.

“You said the Director wanted me, not—”

Davenport shakes his head, the faintest hint of a grin on his face.

And when Taako thinks back, fuzzily, _yeah_ , okay, maybe he hadn’t actually answered the question. But he’d _implied_ —and he hadn’t _corrected_ Taako’s assumption, and—

“Ugh.” Taako gives him his best withering glare. “I hate you.”

“Davenport,” Davenport says cheerfully, looking amused as hell—way more than the situation calls for, way more than Taako can let slide, he’s definitely gonna let the bastard have it, he’s gonna—

But Davenport’s already walking away, and Taako’s not gonna chase after him, and he’s pretty sure he’s out of fucking spell slots (blew most of them on training, the rest on this and that), so he settles for glaring at him and vowing revenge and resisting the urge to shout _you’re not my dad_ after him, because it feels—weird. awkward, he decides. Embarrassing as hell. An un-utterable phrase, Taako would rather _die_ , _fuck_.

He turns to go back to the library, just to spite the bastard, but it’s a long walk, and he doesn’t want to run into anyone else tonight, and he’s full and his brain is soup and so are his limbs, a little bit, so—

Fuck it.

He stops, turns back, opens his door, slips inside, drops the book with a careless _thonk_ , makes his way to his sleepy sack, and crawls in, too foggy already to even consider worrying about night terrors.

And he sleeps, and doesn’t dream.

-

Round the corner, Davenport pauses. Listens for a telltale _thud_ —and there it is, the door closing—and then another moment for footsteps—but there aren’t any.

Good.

He resumes walking. Wonders, idly (but not without concern, despite the fact that, strictly speaking, it isn’t really his business), whether the kid will sleep.

Davenport isn’t his _biggest_ fan right now (not after Candlenights), but hopes he will all the same. Is pretty sure he needs it.

He looked a bit weird when he passed him earlier in the day—a weird he’s decided to categorize as _tired_ when it shows up on Taako from now on, after the library. Which. He looked even weirder there. Too still. And not the languid sort of stillness Davenport’s come to associate with him, a—a chiller sort. Except for his eyes. All twitchy behind the lids, like he was having a nightmare, maybe. And the way he jabbed that staff at Davenport’s face—

Well. It’s not as though Davenport doesn’t get like that, sometimes, when he’s woken from dreams he can’t remember, clothes chilly with sweat. He almost bit the Director, once. Did throw a pen at Johann, the time Johann found him dozing over notes. So, you know. He gets it.

Maybe not entirely—he’s not Taako—but enough that he’s pretty sure he’s right. He knows a nightmare when he sees one.

And he just thought—well.

If he’s being honest, he didn’t think much at all, not when he first stepped forward. It was more impulse than anything else, the same impulse that’d spurred him to go on the late-night walk in the first place. He’d wanted—in that twisting sort of way that often creeps in his lungs and pools there—to do something. Go somewhere, find something, fix something. He doesn’t know.

He never quite knows. But he usually finds something, whether it’s a message to deliver or a map to mark up or a pot of tea to make, something to busy his buzzing hands, to loosen the wanting, just a little.

Tonight, the something was Taako.

And in the split second before he tapped his hand, a plan came together, and he thought. Well. Maybe the kid’d prefer to have his probably-nightmare somewhere a little more private. (He knows he would, himself.)  And a little more comfortable, because that corner looked like hell on the spine.

And maybe if he woke up and wandered round long enough before going back to sleep, the dream wouldn’t just come right back.

Which, speaking of—he almost can’t believe the kid didn’t notice. He took the long way, doubled back a bunch, led him down the same exact hallway twice, even, and Taako said nothing.

Which, on the one hand. Score one to Davenport, he’s _definitely_ still got it. (...Still…….?) (Yes, still. This isn’t the first time he’s pulled this maneuver.) (....Is it?) (No.) (...Yes?) (........No. He’s pulled similar ones, at least, he’s positive. Remembers them. With the Director, with Killian, once, with—with….) (.....He likes a sideways gambit, Davenport does.)

So, score one, still got it. Yes. But on the other hand, how tired was the kid, to still not notice (or not care?) by the end. Cause like, he was pretty blatant.

Or maybe he just thought Davenport had got lost, and didn’t care to do anything about it. That’s also a possibility.

Which is fair. Davenport’s gotten lost on the base before. Not in over a year, mind, not since his last really bad day, shortly before he was innoculated—but still. It’s happened, and more than once.

But Taako doesn’t know that, and even though it’s fine, and it doesn’t matter, and there’s no shame in it (none, he tells himself firmly, because it’s true whether it feels it or not), and he doesn’t even know if Taako actually _made_ that assumption—even though—all that. The hypothetical assumption still rankles a bit.

Still rankles a lot, if he’s honest.

Davenport clenches his hands into fists and walks faster and tries not to think about Candlenights. (Fucking Candlenights.) (He wishes Taako hadn’t offered the cookie like that.) (He wishes he hadn’t gone along with it.) (And he knows what’s done is done, but _gods_ —)

He slams his fists against the side of his legs, just once, then pointedly unclenches his them—and realizes belatedly that he’s crumpled his FUCK OFF card.

Shit. That’s his favorite fucking card. (Rarely used, of course, as it’s not remotely professional, but a _delight_ to whip out when opportunity strikes—people _never_ expect it.) (Like tonight. The look on Taako’s face, both times, was  _priceless_. And he nearly got an apology out of him, besides.) (Davenport wonders if that’ll stick.)

(Probably not.)

(But no matter. Mission: Trick The Reclaimer Kid Into Sleeping is over. Not important anymore. Important, right now, is fixing the card.)

He smooths it back out as best he can, frowns at the crinkles, tucks it in a different pocket to the others, and makes a mental note to re-copy it later. (Not tonight. If he tries tonight, it’ll only come out _Davenport_.) (Tomorrow, maybe.) (Tomorrow.)

For now….

He exits the dome, finds a smooth patch of grass, lays flat on his back, hands folded behind his head, and stares up at the sky.

The little mission is done, and the big one hangs all-encompassing as always, but for now, for now….

There is this: the stars are beautiful tonight.


End file.
